RC002

Amid the bustle of Tony Blair's Britain, the tradition of the afternoon tea is one of the last remaining traces of the country's genteel past. There are few places that conjure up that past better than the oakpaneled
King's Bar Lounge at the Hotel Russell, a fading Victorian pile that sits on the edge of Bloomsbury, only a few short blocks from the British Museum. On a drizzly summer afternoon, I sink into one of the Lounge's overstuffed leather chairs, feeling as if I were being transported back to an earlier, more leisurely era–far from "cool Britannia" and
debates over the future of the euro. The spell is abruptly broken, however, by the sudden, agitated entrance of the Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek, who is in town to deliver a series of lectures at the British Film Institute.

"We must have the most fanatically precise English tea," Zizek insists, gesticulating dramatically in the style of a European dictator. "Everything must be exactly the way the English do it: clotted cream, cucumber sandwiches, scones. It must be the most radically
English experience possible!"

 Bearded, disheveled, and loud, Zizek looks like central casting's pick for the role of Eastern European Intellectual. Newspapers are lowered and conversations stop as a skittish waiter shows us to a small table in the far corner of the room. Barely pausing to sit down, Zizek launches into a monologue so learned and amusing that it could very well appear–verbatim–in one of the many books he has written about the obscene rules that sustain our supposedly civilized social practices. With lightning speed, he moves from the decline of British culture("They took perfectly good tea, added milk, and made it look like filthy dishwater!") to Hollywood ("Brad Pitt's Seven Years in Tibet–a terrible movie!") to the Tibetan legal system ("a process of formalized bribery where opposing parties bid against each other in a ritualized auction–I absolutely love this!").

Zizek talks exactly as he writes, in a nonstop pastiche of Hegelian philosophy, Marxist dialectics, and Lacanian jargon leavened with references to film noir, dirty jokes, and pop culture ephemera. "Discussing Hegel and Lacan is like breathing for Slavoj. I've seen him talkabout theory for four hours straight without flagging," says UCBerkeley's Judith Butler. When not mediated by the printed page, however, the obsessivecompulsive quality that makes his hyperkinetic prose so exhilarating is somewhat overwhelming–even, evidently, for Zizek himself. Popping the occasional Xanax to settle his nerves, he tells me about his heart problems and frequent panic attacks. As his eyes dart around the room and his manic monologue becomes more frantic, I fear that I may be his last interviewer. Zizek is like a
performance artist who is terrified of abandoning the stage; once he starts talking, he seems unable to stop. "You must be much crueler, more brutal with me!" he pleads, even as he  speeds his pace to prevent me from cutting him off. "You should never enter a sadomasochistic relationship," he scolds, a sly smile peeking out from his bushy beard. "You wouldn't whip your partner hard enough!"

When the waiter returns, Zizek finally pauses, studies the menu, and orders a pot of mint tea and a plate of sugar cookies. Mint tea and cookies? What about our "radical" English experience? "Oh, I can't drink anything stronger than herbal tea in the afternoon," he says
meekly. "Caffeine makes me too nervous." 

FOR ZIZEK, a conversation–whatever the topic–is an exercise in selfcontradiction.
When he thinks you are beginning to get a handle on his motives or desires, he pulls an aboutface, insists he doesn't mean anything he has just said, that his own views are the exact opposite. His contrariness is famous, and as a writer it has generally served him well–helping to earn him a reputation as a dazzlingly acute thinker and prose stylist and to win him a cult following among American graduate students. In person, however, it seems that Zizek's contrariness is at least partly an uncontrollable compulsion. And yet his manipulations and subterfuges are so entertaining, and his intellect so stimulating, that it is far wiser to surrender without a fight than to try to trump him at his game.

33. What according to the passage might be inferred about Zizek? 

(1) He wants the author to treat him badly.
(2) Taking the herbal tea in the afternoon will make him relaxed.
(3) He had a fetish of doing everything the English way.
(4) He believed that the author wouldn't overcome him.
(5) His gestures bear a strong influence of the Slovenian dictator.

34. What can be an inference from the passage? 

(1) British haute cuisine is declining.
(2) Zizek has been critical of diminishing civic society, in one of his books.
(3) Zizek exercises selfcontradiction on his motifs.
(4) Tradition of afternoon tea was revived during Tony Blair's rule of Britain.
(5) Zizek had a literary shadow of Hegel and Lacan in his writing.

35. Of the following, which is the idea that most strongly leads to the line "Discussing Hegel and Lacan is like breathing for Slavoj…"?

(1) Zizek might be an ardent follower of Hegel and Lacan.
(2) Slavoj has written a lot about Hegel and Lacan.
(3) Zizek has been a contemporary of Hegel and Lacan.
(4) Slavoj was closely mentored by Hegel and Lacan.
(5) Zizek had a fleeting influence of Hegel and Lacan on his writing.